


Lucky You

by kriari (kadielkrieger)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-02
Updated: 2010-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadielkrieger/pseuds/kriari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen's agent made him promise to spend at least one day over hiatus in LA taking meetings. Chance decides there's another kind of meeting he ought to take while he's there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky You

_You could have made the safer bet, for what you break is what you get._   
_Lucky You_ , The National

 

Being in Los Angeles feels strange, transient in a way he forgets when he's elsewhere, everyone passing through on their way to somewhere better - west to Malibu or Brentwood, north to Burbank - always at a dizzying pace. Not that Jensen has trouble keeping up, he doesn't. Hell, he's fucking aces at being seen - part of the job, after all. When it needs to be.

It's just that every now and then he wishes it wasn't. Absent friends notwithstanding, he's almost as partial to the relative quiet of Vancouver as he is the brush-strewn horse trails on the outskirts of Roanoke.

After five months in the great white north then two weeks in Texas, L.A. hums beyond the tinted glass of the town car window with a different kind of life - sea salt and smog, neon bright lights flattening the stars down to sallow pinpricks, everything glittering, plastic, and perfect. Fake. Fake palm trees and noses and breasts, sure, but it's the fake fucking people that really get to him.

Most days he can ignore the empty platitudes, chalk them up to an occupational hazard, square his chin, and take it. This business makes having thick skin an essential art. Then again, most days he hasn't been subject to twelve straight hours of airbrush tans, Lumineers, and charcoal Armani pinstripes barely cloaking a general air of indifference. Usually all he has to do is get up at the ass-crack of dawn and roll out to do something he loves.

Still, thanks to the fifteen solid years under his belt, he knows the lack of focus has more to do with that pesky dangling contract than his marketability.

Not that it matters anyway. Every last one of the meetings Gayle set up was either for a pilot or a recurring role on a series and that's not a crazy train he's ready to ride again quite yet. Regardless of whether they're coming back or not, sleeping for three months after they wrap this season sounds like the best idea ever, because he really needs a break.

Right now, Jensen wants a few hours to himself before he dumps the traveling road show of his life into a suitcase and wings his way back to the sixteen hour days and near-constant rain. It's the first time in a long time he regrets stripping his place here down to necessities. Between the soaring expanses of blank white walls and the musty scent of neglect, it's damn depressing, made more so by the memory of his momma's brisket and Mac's soupy pecan pie-turned-cobbler still tangled up on his tongue - all the things that make him ache for roots when he doesn't have the luxury.

Going back to that featureless, grey box in Burbank to watch PGA tourney highlights and order takeout seems the really fucking pathetic kind of pathetic. Besides, he's not in LA that often - places to go, people to see. Places to go, anyway. As for people, he's been _on_ all day and isn't really in the mood.

Jensen can make an exception for Silvio, but only because he knows they miraculously find a table in the back whenever he shows up, they never ask questions he doesn't want to answer, and the Osteria's lasagna verde is the kind of gastronomic experience that reduces grown men to tears.

Literally.

Thankfully, they're still on Santa Monica and while swinging back won't be easy this time of night, it's not the end of the world. Jensen leans up and when the leather creaks, he sees the driver's gaze flick carefully from the road to the rearview.

"Mr. Ackles?"

"Jensen, please," he says, and drags a rough hand through his hair, suddenly, painfully homesick. "Mr. Ackles is somewhere in Richardson, probably asleep in front of a football game."

"Sir?"

"Neverm...Uh, can we turn around?"

"Of course," the driver says, and Jensen kicks himself a little for not knowing the dude's name, kicks himself a lot for listening to Gayle in the first place and not pulling his wheels out of long-term storage for the day. "Where to?"

"Left on Beverly. You know Veneto Osteria?"

"Let me guess, lasagna verde?"

The guy risks a quick glance over the backseat, flashes the corner of a smile at Jensen, then flips the driver's side visor down to reveal a battered 4" x 6" of a pretty brunette in her early thirties. Jensen only has time to register that she smiles like Jared before the visor flips back up.

"My wife. Her parents came over from Sicily when they were kids. Silvio's is the only Italian place in the city she'll eat. The verde's her favorite."

Jensen smiles for the first time in what feels like hours, huffs a laugh born more of exhaustion than genuine humor, but he figures it's the thought that counts.

"Sounds like a woman who knows what she wants," he says, wishing again he had thought to ask the dude for a name when he first slid into the backseat. It feels weird to be talking about his wife without having any idea what to call him.

Whatever.

The driver's gaze finds the rearview one last time as he eases the town car to the curb in front of the restaurant, and when he smiles back there's a private fondness layered into it that Jensen rarely sees on anyone, much less someone who spends his life catering to the geographical whims of other people. Once the car rolls to a stop, he crooks his elbow over the seat and studies Jensen, says, "You have no idea," then offers his hand.

Jensen shakes it out of reflex, even though that easy familiarity makes his palms itch just as much as it always does. For a second, he thinks again about asking for a name but decides against it and reaches for the door handle instead, plants his feet against the curb before he leans back in.

"Thanks, man," he says, and tucks his thumbs in his front pockets, rocks back on his heels in anticipation, because honestly he's fucking starving. "Go on home to her. I can manage from here."

Two seconds later, there's a nod from the front seat and Jensen shoves the rear door closed with a reassuring thump. He watches while the car slips back into the flow of traffic and disappears.

Weird.

But then, today has already been an extended exercise in weird, it would be stupid to expect any different.

He could use a fucking blow job. Hell, he could use a drink or ten. Except not, because his flight leaves in eight hours and he learned the hard way not to mix planes with hangovers. That rule slots into place right after the whole liquor before beer thing. Silvio, though, would be offended if he doesn't sample a vintage from the cellar. Half a bottle can't hurt.

Even though it's after nine, the lights still burn bright in the windows of the Osteria. It's not quite the same as elbowing his way in the patio door of his folks' place, but for now, it'll have to do. When Jensen pulls the door open, he's assaulted by a burst of laughter, the clattering of plates being cleared, and he thinks maybe takeout was the way to go after all. Then he spies Silvio threading his way through the tables, all broad white grin and neat moustache, and reconsiders.

For all his boisterousness, Silvio never comes off as the type who panders to celebrity. He's loud, but in a way that reminds Jensen of his big brother. He's familiar, but keeps it to a hearty clap on the shoulder and a series of perfunctory questions about work, how long he's in town. It's refreshing.

"Jensen! How long has it been? Six months? More?"

"Something like that. Business treating you well, I see."

Obviously it is. Even at this hour and in the middle of a crippling recession that has the rest of the state on its knees, there are only five open tables in the front dining room.

Silvio's smile dims a degree. He nods solemnly and says, "It's Saturday night. Wednesday is much different. At least I have been able to keep everyone so far. "

"I didn't mean--"

"No, no. It's fine. Come, let's get you settled. Would you like to sit with your friends?"

"Friends?"

"They're nearly through dessert," Silvio says, waves a plump hand across the tasteful metal divider. "They neglected to tell me that they were expecting you, though they did mention your name. I assure you, the staff has taken excellent care of them."

Jensen peers through the ivy and iron in the direction of Silvio's gesture and catches a glimpse of Misha's profile, his head tipped back with laughter. A dozen people Jensen's never met sit to Misha's left and right, but he knows who called the reservation in, who requested the table when the party arrived. It is Misha after all.

He realizes it's a dick move before he makes it, but he's too bushed to feel guilty when he says, "I'll stick with the usual if you've got it."

To his credit, Silvio says nothing, electing instead to keep moving, carefully dodging chairs and servers alike until they're standing beside a vacant table set apart from the dining room proper. Even with the heavy drapes swept back, the angle of the alcove turns it into an almost private corner in the midst of the furious whirlwind that is the Osteria at dinnertime. It feels exclusive and a bit too decadent, but Jensen doesn't care and Silvio never seems to mind that he's not a big enough deal to warrant the treatment.

Once he settles in, Silvio smiles again and says, "I'll have the kitchen start your Capricciosa right away. Can I interest you in a bottle of wine?"

"I trust your judgment, you've never steered me wrong."

"Very good. I'll have them bring up a bottle of the Asili."

"Thank you, really. But seriously, you've got a restaurant to run. Go run it."

Silvio glances at his watch, quick flick of a wrist and a sigh, and then makes a face. "You're right, of course you are. Carter will be taking care of you. The first course will be out momentarily."

"No rush," Jensen says, and settles in. Now that he's here, there really isn't. He can feel the day slipping away as the tiny clusters of discomfort begin to unknot themselves.

Finally, he feels like he can relax.

There's another burst of laughter from the front of the restaurant, and Jensen wonders if he should be more worried about the fact that he can instantly pick out Misha's infectious cackle or that because of it, and in spite of the shit day he's had, he can feel a smile stretching his cheeks. If Misha were alone, there'd have been no question about seating arrangements. Problem is, he never knows what kind of company Misha's keeping. It could just as soon be a table of astrophysicists as it could be a troupe of off-duty mimes. While that particular dinner conversation amuses him in theory, Jensen's looking for certainties tonight, not three part questions on the nature of space-time.

He's good with shouldering the burden of being an asshole if it keeps him sane.

Well, as sane as he was when he walked in.

Once he has food in his stomach, that sliding scale may actually improve, but until Carter shows with his salad, he's shit out of luck. There's a leather-bound menu set at the place to his right, and although he knows Silvio's cuisine like the back of his hand, every now and then he likes to look, see if anything's been added.

He resolutely does not think about his series of vaguely disappointing meetings. At all.

The pages are stiff when Jensen turns them, and he's trying to decide if tonight's the night he lets Silvio talk him into one of those mascarpone concoctions of his, when he hears wood scrape against wood, the snap of a napkin flapping open. Counting to three saves him from making an even bigger ass out of himself, so Jensen's grateful the years have taught him to take a beat when his patience wears thin.

"So sorry I'm late. Traffic was a bitch."

Of course it's Misha. Jensen doesn't even bother lowering the menu, and when he doesn't hear any additional rustling or closely crowded chit chat, he assumes Misha is, in fact, alone so decides to forgo the pleasantries Misha's long since condemned.

"From across the dining room?" he asks, snorts, "That's some slow boat to China."

"The silk trade has its drawbacks, as you well know."

Jensen doesn't know. Hell, he has no fucking clue what they talk about half the time, but it's mostly entertaining so he doesn't really care. He relents and sets the menu aside. Misha's tipped back in his chair, nursing a glass of wine and studying the dark green pattern woven into the curtains like it's a rosetta stone he can use to unlock the secrets of the universe.

"How'd you know I was here?"

Misha's eyes make the slide before his chin, and Jensen notices that they're that stormy, slate grey today rather than blue, then promptly kicks himself for noticing. Maybe the fact that he's had a weird day is his own damn fault.

When Misha catches him watching, he guesses that, yeah, he might be right.

"If I told you, it'd mean the demolition of a small fishing village in Manchuria. Wouldn't want that on your conscience. Now would you?"

"Okay." Jensen sighs. As much as he likes Misha, sometimes the crazy gets under his skin. This would be one of those times. "So is this who you are tonight?"

"Who would that be?" Misha asks, completely composed as he takes a slow sip of his wine. Jensen feels the heat creep up the back of his neck, can sense that last layer of tolerance wearing away under the weight of Misha's Mishaness.

"A dick."

"You'll have to be more specific, because unless I'm mistaken, the definition of a dick includes a clause about snubbing one's friends. One's _alleged_ friends."

"I'd apologize if I didn't think you were stalking me."

"I was here first, remember," Misha says and leans, props his elbows against the table top with complete disregard for common courtesy. Jensen sighs and tries to remind himself that Misha was practically raised a gypsy, not Southern, and that as omniscient as Misha imagines himself to be, even he can't hear Jensen's momma squawking against the insides of his skull.

So much for quiet and relaxing.

"Tonight," Jensen protests, and glances over Misha's shoulder, wondering if the waiter's forgotten about him in the bustle. "I've been coming here for years."

"Yes, I know. You told me. I thought I might see what all the fuss was about."

"Right. I guess. That still doesn't explain how you knew I was -"

"I was getting ready to leave and our waitress heard the buzz in the kitchen. Thought I might like to say hello."

"Naturally," Jensen says, and wishes for his wine, wishes for more than wine actually. It makes sense that she would mention it considering Misha probably dropped his name at the door. It also makes the worst kind of sense that this new weirdness is essentially one of his own making.

Only it doesn't have to be weird. Well, okay. It does a little, because it's Misha, but no more so than when they all hunker down at some picnic table in whatever ass end of nowhere they happen to be shooting that week. This can be exactly like that.

"I, of course, already knew," Misha says, proving once and for all that this really isn't the same. They're both coloring widely outside the lines that have defined both their personal and professional relationship and Jensen's not in the mood to try and rein them back in. Not that it's bad, necessarily, just different.

Jensen sighs, spares a brief moment to mourn the passing of his uncomplicated evening and pulls a breath to ask Misha how, but Carter the absentee waiter chooses that exact moment to show up with pitcher and plate. When he sets the latter down silently and reaches for Jensen's glass, Misha eyes him in that way he has, the one that would make Jensen uncomfortable if he didn't already know it's both an unconscious reflex and about as malicious as a kitten eyeing a bird through a screen door. Misha's genuinely fascinated by people and Jensen's been in his company often enough at meet-and-greets that the slow blink and squint routine has become old hat. Jensen does the same thing to a certain extent, because that's also part of the job. Even though his catalogues of human behavior are built with much less fascination, that doesn't make the practice any less valid or necessary.

Misha's just kind of naturally intimidating.

Capricciosa delivered and water goblet properly filled, Carter turns to leave as silently as he appeared. Misha, it seems, takes issue with that particular idea.

"Am I invisible today?" he asks, and tips back in his chair again to try to catch Carter's eye. "Because if so, time's wasting."

"You're not invisible," Jensen says and shrugs his apology to Carter instead of actually making it.

Carter raises a brow and squeezes out a polite if not particularly warm smile.

"Sir, will your friend be staying?"

Jensen realizes Carter's trying to do right by him, even if it's just because Silvio told him to. This is LA not Vancouver, so the guy's probably used to dealing not only with celebrities, but also with their less-than-balanced fans that won't take no for an answer.

Misha, thankfully, keeps his two cents to himself.

"It appears that way," Jensen says and pinches the bridge of his nose then looks across the table at Misha from behind his hand. It's obvious from the tiny twitches caught at the corners of Misha's mouth that he's only fucking with Carter because he can. Which is, okay, a little funny in this case, mostly because he's not the one at Misha's mercy. In the end, that's what changes his mind. "Yeah, looks like he's staying."

"Now we've shaken out the cast," Misha says, and his lips curve slowly, twisting artfully into that full-on smirk Jensen's been waiting for, "We'll take a bottle of--" He stops, hums, considers Jensen for a long moment before continuing. "Two bottles of the '97 Barbaresco Asili and the appetizer special."

"Very well. Three bottles," Carter begins, but Jensen cuts him off.

"No, just the one. One's more than enough."

Carter takes that as his cue to spin on a heel and head for the proverbial hills. Jensen hears him mutter something under his breath as he rounds the corner, but it doesn't really matter because when he swings his focus back to Misha, his brain slides sideways just enough that he can't really remember what day it is much less what he was going to say.

It happens more often than Jensen cares to admit when he's in the same room as Misha, and even though he's never been able to explain it, in this particular instance, the possible rationalizations are limited. The fact Misha's sliding one chair closer with a strange sort of grace all his own has absolutely no bearing on the state of Jensen's mind. Neither does the quick flash of pink as Misha tongues an errant drop of wine from his lips.

Really.

"Who are you and _what_ have you done with Jensen?" Misha says, or - more accurately - ever so slightly slurs. Jensen can tell that in spite of the earlier barbs, Misha's wobbling on that tightrope between tipsy and drunk, threatening to spill from one into the other. While he can't claim to understand all of Misha's intricacies, Jensen's been shitfaced with the guy often enough to recognize the difference. Sober, Misha's a thunderstorm. Drunk, he's a full-fledged hurricane. Right now, he seems to be skipping along at category two.

Amusing? Yes, almost always, but in this case Misha's pet PA, Bev, isn't around to whisper in the bartender's ear or unthread the length of Misha's belt from the sprinkler head in the men's room. Tonight, it's all on Jensen and even though he knows he should mind, that he should be righteously fucking pissed at the presumption, he's not. Or can't be. Whatever. Not with Misha's lip quirked like that. Not with Misha staring the way he always stares, peeling back layers with a wild, senseless precision unfettered by the burden of sobriety.

Only Misha could make someone feel like a particularly fascinating science experiment while in the midst of a hardcore wine buzz.

"Still Jensen." He levels Misha with a long look, trying to figure out if he's just playin' possum. "How many have you had?"

"Lovers? Lousy lays? Labra-damn-doodles?" Misha grins wide, tosses back the swallow that's been swirling the bottom of his glass for the past ten minutes and when he finally makes his mind up to continue, his tone's gone honed again. "Fill in the blanks for me, _Jenny Bear_. I know not what you ask."

"Okay, no. That will not be a thing," Jensen says, then spears and ferries a forkful of pickled peppers from plate to mouth. He tries to ignore the even more prominent flash of pearly whites as Misha bends and twists, shifting so close to the edge of his seat that Jensen expects a lapful any second.

"Have you learned nothing?"

Jensen chews, swallows, but in the end decides against responding. There's no right answer to reach for and there's no telling where Misha might end up if encouraged along whatever conversational thread that question belongs to.

Instead he simply quirks a brow and silently goes about the business of finishing off the first course.

Never one to disappoint, Misha pulls his chair closer in one long slide, and Jensen's instantly grateful to be right-handed. If he weren't, he'd no doubt be wearing his Capricciosa. Misha's passed into what Jensen considers Castiel space - too close for comfort yet impossible to escape. Not that he'd ever give Misha the satisfaction of retreat. Not that he really wants to, y'know, escape anyway. And that, in a nutshell, is the problem. Because with Misha occupying that space _here_ , without the distraction of two hundred other people milling around in familiar patterns, Jensen has nowhere to put the nervous energy, no convenient outlet to accept blame for the ridiculous flip in his gut.

Just Misha and the broad span of his smile, the dip in his upper lip spreading and flattening with it, the way his lashes lay a little too long against his cheeks when he blinks slow, slower than usual with the wine and he reaches out to squeeze Jensen's shoulder. In the absence of the set buzz or Jared's drunken antics, Jensen can't ignore the way Misha's breath slips warm across his skin when he tucks in tight and says, "Jenny Bear," again with that low, rough-hewn voice that's too warm and intimate to attribute to some fictional renegade angel.

And yeah, Jensen _wants_ , has for a long fucking time, but he'll be damned if anyone - even Misha - gets to call him Jenny.

"You think I won't kick your ass just because you're drunk?"

Misha's fingers dig in again, a rough grab that sets Jensen's teeth on edge, and he feels every shallow crescent of nail, swears he can feel the tendons as they go tight then shudder loose.

"You won't because I'm too pretty," Misha says.

And even though he expects it, expectation doesn't change the slow glide of Misha's hand from shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist, or the sweep of Misha's thumb across his pulse point. Certainly doesn't change the urge he has to be reckless, to take Misha up on the latest of his many veiled offers, to have something just because he can and damn the consequences. It thrums up under his skin, an electric pulse that's tied to the thousand and one ways Misha drives him up a fucking wall and around the fucking bend. It would have to be today of all days. Before he can stop himself, his fork meets the tablecloth in a clatter and his fingers band around Misha's wrist like his brain has no say in the matter.

Stupid, Jensen thinks, couldn't possibly be more stupid unless they were actually in the midst of a scene. Still, he's done things a lot more brainless for a lot worse reasons and when he tugs, Misha's eyes flash bright then fly wide, a soft startled sound Jensen can't quite interpret pushed out between his lips. But Misha doesn't shake him off or push him away and Jensen's pretty sure he's not so wasted that it's an impossibility. No, he lets Jensen drag him closer, draw him in until they're sharing a series of breaths too stuttered for polite company.

"Fuck it," Jensen mutters, heart thumping like a fucking freight train in his chest, a welcome cacophony bouncing back against his eardrums that blocks out most of the background noise, lets him believe that they're alone and that maybe, just maybe this is where they've always been headed.

If he'd just let himself have this a year ago, it wouldn't still be an issue, wouldn't be a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, the nuisance of an itch he can't quite scratch. It wouldn't be _this_.

He purposely turns his brain off and eases into the familiar tilt, unwinds his fingers from Misha's wrist so he can get a better grip, haul Misha in right where he needs to be. But then he hears fabric rustle and someone clears their throat, very politely, very fucking annoyingly from way too close.

Carter.

Jensen grits his teeth against his own impatience and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hang on to whatever wild hair blew up his ass to make him take the chance, hoping that Carter has the sense to shut the hell up and leave.

Unfortunately, the fates are against him, because Carter shuffles uncomfortably and clears his throat again, then says, "Your verde, sir. And the Asili. Silvio asked me to apologize, but we ran out of the appetizer special an hour ago."

"Fine. Awesome."

"Would you like to test the bottle before I leave it?"

"No," Jensen snaps, and then sighs. "No," he says again, then throws another apologetic glance Carter's way and begins buttoning himself back up, battening himself down. The moment's gone anyway. Shame. "Thanks, I'm sure it's great."

"Is there anything else I can--" Carter begins.

This time the, "No," comes from Jensen's left and if he'd blinked, he might have missed the flash of long, white apron fluttering away as he turns his attention back to Misha. Misha, who's still staring like he thinks he can pull the thoughts out of Jensen's head if he just tries hard enough.

It's the same Misha who latches on, grins an entirely new brand of grin, and says, "I think not," when Jensen tries to extricate himself.

"You do, huh? What gave you the impression that I give a shit?" Jensen asks, words spilling thick, tongue gone swollen and heavy in his mouth.

And as delicious as the verde smells, as pissed off as his stomach is at him right now, he's paralyzed by the sharp line of Misha's jaw begging him for bruises, the soft pink swell of Misha's lower lip serenading him with some quirky siren song he can't shrug off anymore.

Since when does he deny himself anything, anyway?

Before Jensen can work his way back up to lean in and take, he does have a lapful - almost a lapful - of long limbs and heat and skin. Misha's right up in his personal space, so close that he's nothing but a flesh and chocolate-colored blur boasting two wide circles of sky-bright blue that keep smearing in and out of focus. So close that when Misha mumbles, "Jesus, Jensen, I swear your head would rival the vaults at Fort Knox," their lips almost brush together.

Jensen smiles, fits a palm against the back of Misha's neck and says "Your pillow talk sucks ass, man." Then lets himself have it.

Misha makes another sound, this one much less surprised and Jensen loses himself to the slick sweep of tongue, the sharp sting of teeth in his lip, and somehow between the kaleidoscopic blizzard blanching his brain and the choked off gasps Misha's spilling into his mouth, he misses the crash as the chair overturns. The next thing he knows, he's tonguing at Misha's collarbone with Misha making apologies over his shoulder, Misha fighting past the hitch in his voice to ask for a box. That at least registers, because.

Fuck.

And his night is now apparently complete because Misha's ribs shake with silent laughter and he says, "Not yet," as he slips free of Jensen's grip.

They leave without an official request coming down. Silvio keeps to the kitchen and Jensen keeps his hands to himself, thanking his lucky fucking stars for Silvio's policy about his servers carrying cell phones on the floor. Misha weaves the tight tributaries between tables with a curious agility given his supposed state of drunkenness but Jensen brushes it off, only breathing easy once they're standing on the sidewalk outside.

"That was -" Jensen starts, but he can't wrangle the words to finish. Instead, he wonders if you can get a contact buzz off wine because that would explain a lot.

Misha has better luck and next to no shame, so he smiles brightly, splays a hand in the small of Jensen's back, says, " _That_ was an appetizer," before he brings them back together and licks Jensen's lips open so effortlessly it makes them both moan like a couple of fucking girls.

Halfway through mapping the terrain of Misha's mouth, Jensen's brain finally kicks back into gear and he pulls away long enough to say, "Inside. We need. I."

"If you insist," Misha sighs and starts fishing through his pockets for keys. A sleek, black BMW 6 series chirps nearby once he does and Jensen's confused all over again. It must show on his face because Misha chuckles as he untangles to make his way to the car.

"Coming?"

"But."

"Bought it when I landed the steady gig. Not that I should have to explain myself."

"But."

"Get in the fucking car, Jensen, or I'm leaving you," Misha says, and Jensen thinks it would be more convincing if he were actually sliding into the driver's seat. Or if he looked more pissed than sloppy, but whatever.

Jensen is not a car guy, will never be a car guy. He thinks Jared's 'Vette might be the most ridiculous purchase any person has made in the history of ever. It's a toy, a flashy, barely functional toy at that. But even he can respect this and it doesn't matter that the 6 series isn't top of the line, the leather's just as soft and the engine still purrs prettily at him when he slides the key home and turns.

Misha smirks over at him when he pets the steering wheel, barks a sharp little laugh, and says, "I've been forsaken."

"What? No. It's just--"

"Pretty, yes. I know. She's mine. It should come as no surprise that I like pretty things."

For a split second, Misha looks like he wants to say something else but thinks better of it. He does twist sideways, angling himself toward Jensen, fingers creeping across the space between them until he's touching again. Maybe there's nothing more to say.

This is crazy. Actually, it's worse than crazy. Crazy is stage-diving or winding up Route 1 at seventy miles an hour with the Santa Anas blowing.

This is epic levels of fucking your co-star stupid. That's if he even fucks Misha, which is so not a given. He wants to more than just about anything right now. It's not that. Jensen's no stranger to mutually agreeable casual sex. It's the rest of the puzzle, the part that's still falling into place, that bothers him.

It's the way Misha looks at him sometimes, the way he catches himself looking at Misha.

It's that he's not sure how casual he can be, how casual he wants to be, that they might be in completely different fucking books here, not to mention pages.

A quick peek at Misha sprawled boneless in the passenger seat makes his mind up for him. Crazy or stupid, it's worth it to touch and taste, to lay those bruises down and render Misha into base elements and need like he knows he can, knows he will.

"So, where to?"

"Burbank," Misha says on a sigh and twists back to lean his forehead against the window.

"Anywhere more specific, Burbank's kind of..."

"I'm not _that_ drunk, Jensen. I do still know where I live."

"Yeah, okay," Jensen says and drifts down into silence.

The drive passes uneventfully. He manages not to get too happy with the accelerator and Misha manages to dig himself out of whatever weird fucking brood he fell into long enough to make sure Jensen finds the right garage. Once the car idles down, they sit side-by-side, Jensen listening to gas ping in the tank as the engine cools, Misha doing whatever it is he's been doing for the last twenty minutes.

Second-guessing?

"Jen..."

"Mish..."

Neither of them gets any further than that, and in Jensen's case, it's that he doesn't know what to say, how to say it. All he knows is that this is where he wants to be and for him, that's enough, so he fists his hand in the front of Misha's shirt to pull. This time, when Misha bends into that space, it's with a flurry of eager, demanding touches that own Jensen in ways he never thought he could be - Misha's fingers already plucking deftly at the button on his jeans, Misha's tongue sliding beneath the line of his collar, Misha guiding his hands exactly where he thinks they should be. And fuck, it's good, good enough to light him up faster than months of subtlety and self-denial.

But.

"Misha," he says once, lips caught on the wild ruff of Misha's hair as that ridiculously talented tongue paints wayward patterns all over his skin. "Misha," Jensen says again, pushing at the solid set of Misha's shoulders. "Hang on."

"Shut up, Jensen. Let me have--"

"You can have whatever the fuck you want, okay? Can we just have it somewhere more comfortable?"

Misha, being Misha, doesn't bother with an answer, just slithers back across the seat and out the passenger side door. Jensen breathes deep and blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, Misha's a lazily leaning silhouette cut into a bright slice of light that beckons him in.

"Here goes nothing," he mutters to himself and makes the grab for the door handle.

Jensen trails along in the weaving wake of Misha's shadow - turning when it turns, slipping around a blind corner - until a palm flattened against his chest halts him mid-step and this time Misha waits, fingers curling in and sliding, knuckles knocked to ribs but not demanding anything. For a handful of seconds, Jensen could swear he's drowning because his lungs lock down hard and he can almost hear the scream for oxygen ripping through his blood.

Then Misha says, "Jensen," like he knows and the air rushes right on in.

It makes him dizzy, slows his reactions enough that when he reaches for Misha intending to slam him back against the wall, it actually turns into less but somehow more. That must work just fine for Misha because he smirks and threads his arms around Jensen's waist.

"That all you got?"

Oh no he - fuck that. Jensen shakes off the stupor and surges forward, hemming Misha in so tight he can feel everything, the curve of Misha's hipbone slotting against his own, the thready skitter-stop of Misha's heart thumping a rhythm out on his sternum, the heat and hardness pushing back at him through denim.

"Seems like plenty to me," Jensen says, and he doesn't quite recognize his own voice, the tightness wound up around and through it like barbed wire.

It's been too long coming, this thing unraveling between them. Even in the midst of a bone-deep exhaustion and caught firmly in the current of blind desire, Jensen knows better than to rush, because you never get that first time back - especially if it might be the only. He's not sure which one this is yet, and for now that's okay. For now, Jensen's content to ease back just enough to get his hands between them, catch and hold the line of Misha's eyes, let Misha see exactly what it does to him as he pops open each button from throat to waist in slow succession.

There's apparently no end to Misha's ego. When he shrugs out of his shirt, he flashes the smug smirk Jensen has learned to hate and says, "That remains to be seen."

"Let me show you, then," Jensen says without thinking and Misha actually laughs, all that sweet, bare skin springing to quivering life. It's almost enough to keep him distracted. Almost.

"The fuck, man?"

The amusement crinkling Misha's eyes at the corners fades abruptly into something more heated, but when he answers, it's to say, "With that kind of game, it's a wonder you ever got laid," and press in, catch the tail of Jensen's T-shirt and pull it up over his head in one fluid motion.

"And you can do better?" Jensen says, and it's weak - he knows it's weak, but this is so far outside his comfort zone it's going to take a search and rescue team to get him back.

The bonus in this case is that now Misha's skin's flushed up against his and it's _glorious_. So much so, he has to count to five and think about anything but this, anything but them and the live wire spark that's eating at the back of his brain or else he's going to take it too far, too fast. Misha's hands find the button on his jeans again and Jensen's convinced there's no such thing.

Jensen assumes Misha's aiming for coy when he looks up through his lashes, but it treads too far over the line into dirty to completely succeed. Doesn't make it any less intoxicating though, and Jensen can feel the last threads of his shaky control start to snap.

Then Misha becomes the storm Jensen remembers, spins them until his back slaps the wall and Misha goes to knee, his fingers long searing streamers across Jensen's stomach as he slides, his tongue warm and wet but not quite where Jensen needs it. But he breathes heat and want into too many layers of cotton, nuzzles in and says, "I'm going to make you forget - everything," and Jensen can't, just can't.

So he doesn't, he's all thumbs trying to get his fly undone and he swears he almost blacks Misha's eye in the process, but then there's only the pleasant wash of cool air against overheated skin and the hiss when Misha's lips close around him, Misha's tongue moving against him like that's what it was made for.

It's sloppy and awkward and perfect, too perfect, and when he curls his fingers roughly into the dark mess of Misha's hair, Misha moans, tilts up and then back and it's not until he spares a glance that Jensen realizes why. The hand not braced against his thigh is lost to shadow, but he knows - feels the quicksilver tense and release of the muscles in Misha's shoulder, the telltale rasp of Misha bringing himself off with practiced proficiency. Jensen's hips jerk involuntarily and he's there, nudged up against the back of Misha's throat; and Misha gasps around him, hums happily, and that's all it takes to send him over.

Gone.

His knees buckle and the wall slides sweat-slick against his back, or he slides against the wall - hard to say.

All he _can_ say for sure is that Misha absolutely fucking delivers.


End file.
